


The Taming

by bun_o_ween



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Divorced Shiro (Voltron), Exhibitionism, First Kiss, Getting Together, Jealousy, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Public Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Scenting, Shiro (Voltron) Has a Large Cock, Size Kink, Trans Keith (Voltron), Virgin Keith (Voltron), afab language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bun_o_ween/pseuds/bun_o_ween
Summary: In six days Keith will enter his heat and choose a husband. In six days Shiro will lose his best friend forever.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 304
Collections: Sheithlentines 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I'm so excited to share the first chapter of my Sheithlentines project for Yaël (I really hope you like it)
> 
> Please be mindful of the tags, they will be updated again in chapters two and three. There is also afab language used in this fic!! And without giving anything away there is some VERY slight Matt/Keith interaction - but I assure you Sheith is absolute endgame. Keith only has eyes for Shiro, and vice versa.

It’s midnight on the Atlas.

Everyone but the captain is sleeping. Shiro finds himself wandering toward the bridge, a cup of coffee in his hand. The glow of his prosthetic matches the soft hum of the hallway. His boots press against the floor. When the door to the bridge opens there’s no one in sight - just the brilliant void of space.

Then, a giggle.

The skeleton crew are two young pilots sitting hip to shoulder. They don’t notice when Shiro comes in, too wrapped up in one another to see anything else. Its a sweet sight, Shiro thinks. He watches for a moment before disturbing it with a gentle cough.

“I’ll take over from here,” he says.

The young pilots flinch apart like rabbits, all wide eyes and pink cheeks. They duck their heads in tender embarrassment, leaving Shiro alone with the view. The man exhales, placing his mug on the surface before him.

Sleep has never been a friend to Shiro.

Some nights he tosses and turns. Other nights he dresses in uniform and walks his thoughts to the bridge. He finds many of his problems diminish themselves against the backdrop of space, flitting away like the stardust they traverse.

The bigger ones linger, form a knot at the top of his spine.

If Shiro were to put a pin on the day his marriage ‘officially’ ended - it would be six months ago. That’s when he’d signed the paperwork. That’s when they’d sold their marital house. Curtis kept the dog. Shiro took to space and claimed his place as Admiral of the Atlas.

Unofficially, it ended earlier.

Like most things born after the war, Shiro’s marriage to Curtis had been fragile. Like a flower. Hopeful. Easy to bruise. Differences were overlooked in favour of comfort. Shiro sank into the relationship like one would sink into a bath. With a sigh.

And the idea of belonging to someone, the joy of an eight hour sleep and retirement, and gardening and a dog, were novel. Like the alien markets that sprang up on the outskirts of the Garrison. Fun. Distracting. Silly things to celebrate the peace time.

But eventually the bath cooled.

Without the threat of a war ugly things came out of the woodwork. Things they’d both ignored because the water was so warm. Curtis muttered a name that cut Shiro like a knife - and he used it as a weapon in every fight since.

“I was your second choice,” Curtis said.

“That’s not true,” Shiro would reply.

It started in hurt whispers and it ended in shouting. In unwashed dishes sitting on the sink, and wine bottles and slammed doors. They went to therapy. They got a dog. They fucked a lot. Shiro huffs softly as he remembers, blowing steam from his coffee before taking a sip.

“I’m married to you, aren’t I?” Shiro snapped one night.

Curtis would laugh, bitter and lost. Shiro would watch as more light died from his eyes. He hated himself all the more for it. Was there anything he could touch without destroying it. Shiro held ring finger in the air like evidence.

“I love _you_ ,” he told Curtis.

His husband would curve the corner of his mouth, no emotion behind the gesture. A ghost - just like the one ruining their marriage. The memory is bitter like Shiro’s coffee, an ugly taste in the hollow of his cheek.

Its a little after 2am when the call comes through.

Shiro’s nestled into the familiarity of paperwork, his mug empty and forgotten. The man feels a flicker of static, sees a ripple of blue light across the bridge. Like lightning in space. Shiro jerks up, the monitor blinking to life.

“ _A-Atlas-s-s_.”

Shiro’s breath catches, he stands.

_“Atlas do you copy?"_

“This is Admiral Shirogane,” Shiro says, then a familiar face appears on the screen.

 _Matt_.

Shiro’s shoulders sink in relief. He hasn’t seen his friend in almost three months - not unusual considering how quickly the Coalition moves. The last he heard Matt was on mission somewhere south of the Asphodel nebula. Exciting, Shiro thinks. He envies him.

“Shiro, you-”

There’s something off about Matt’s voice. His image wavers, his eyes dart to the side to watch something past the lens. There’s a grunt, followed by a sharp cry. Shiro taps his knuckles against his desk, anxious. Wherever Matt is sounds crowded, perhaps dangerous.

“You gotta get here,” Matt rushes, eyes still focused off screen. “Quickly. It’s Keith.”

The name drags Shiro’s heart into his guts. The words die in his throat. A bead of dread settles beneath his ribs and throbs.

“Keith?! Is he alright? Matt, what happened?”

His voice is loud with fear. Shiro fancies himself a calm man. A leader. But all rationale disappears when it comes to Keith. Matt shakes his head and he feels all the worse for it.

“I can’t explain,” Matt says. “You gotta get here, man. Before its too late.”

 _Too late?_

Shiro wants to throw up. He leans forward to touch the desk, nauseous with fear. Suddenly the past three years seem so stupid. Wasted. Why did he leave the space between them sour? Why didn’t he try to mend the thing that broke between them?

“M-Matt,” Shiro says again, heaving.

But the video cuts out. The bridge is suddenly too quiet. Shiro stands there in shock, his palm cool with sweat. The smaller screen before him bleeps and coordinates patch through.

 _Too late_.

Shiro pictures Keith wounded, curled up and tiny. Vulnerable, like the boy he met all those years ago. His face screwed up, soft breaths of pain. Blood on the thin line of his mouth. He doesn’t think as he transfers the coordinates to a personal craft, the fastest of their fleet.

Shiro’s marriage fell apart for many reasons.

But as he rushes for the hangar, with nothing but his uniform and coordinates to the southern space below the Asphodel nebula, he hears his ex-husband’s voice in his head.

Curtis would have said abandoning the Atlas in the dead of night to chase after Keith was a perfect example of why their marriage ended after only two short years.

……………………………………………………………………………

The planet looks suspiciously like earth.

Shiro’s learned in all his years experience that its the ones that look closest to earth that are the most dangerous. Its also taken half his life to suppress the lurching feeling he gets when he imagines Keith is environments like these. The boy is quick, yes. Lethal. Supernaturally strong.

But he is still half human.

Anuveon is only the size of earth’s moon, but she is lush green and smells of rain and gasoline. Her surface is tangled in jungle, twisting trees and thickets, the promise of blue mountains. Shiro touches down in a clearing where the trees give way to red dirt. Its encircled by tents, big enough for one or two bodies - and several much larger, communal spaces.

There’s not a lot of research about the situation on the leafy planet but Shiro studied what he could on the ride over. Anything to distract him from that image of a forlorn, wounded Keith. From what he’s learned there’s a biological mutation in the thick of the jungle and its terrorising the locals.

The air is sweet and sticky when Shiro steps outside, instantly he smells iron. Sees it too, blurts of black blood on the bodies that pass him by. There’s aliens of every species, height and colour. Some Shiro recognises - many he doesn’t Blades too, united by their black and purple armour. The plethora of weapons make sense.

The narrow-eyed glares Shiro is receiving don’t.

He feels eyes on the back of his neck, catches more aliens sizing him up. It prickles Shiro’s flesh and makes him feel sicker than he already does. Even a couple of the Blades turn to scowl at him, but Shiro only has eyes for the tuft of orange hair he sees bound toward him.

“Oh shit!” Matt exclaims, throwing himself at Shiro. “You got here _fast_. Reedak, you owe me 20 GAC.”

Matt looks twice as grimy as he did on camera, and he smells just as bad. He’s also splattered in black blood but his smile shines through. He gives Shiro a firm squeeze and the man simply stands there, dumb-struck.

“Wh-”

A grumpy Balmeran shoves a fistful of money at Matt. The alien switches his attention to Shiro, giving him the same distasteful glare as everybody else. Shiro stares back, his jaw squared.

“We had a bet going,” Matt explains.

Shiro’s mouth opens and closes. He can taste how dry his mouth is. It takes him a moment to force the words out of his throat.

‘Where’s Keith?”

“Oh?” Matt swipes at the grime on his cheek. “I bet you left without telling anyone you were coming, huh.”

Matt’s cocky smile startles Shiro. Its too much - his easy disposition after placing a distress call hours earlier. The man can only open and shut his mouth again, like a goldfish, waiting for the ball to drop. Matt laughs instead, loud and rude.

“You owe me 10 more GAC,” he tells Reedak.

The Balmeran glowers, eyes fixed dead on Shiro as he palms off another wad of cash. Matt smiles like the cat who got the cream, his eyes bright. He smacks Shiro’s arm, his grin getting bigger and bigger.

“It’s so good to see you,” Matt says. “You look great. Did these get bigger?”

He gives a greedy squeeze to Shiro’s pectoral muscle. The man wrinkles his nose at the black grease Matt has smeared onto the fabric, but he’s flustered. He did hit the gym pretty hard after Curtis left.

“Divorce looks good on you.”

“ _Matt_ ,” Shiro grits again, confused. ‘Where’s Keith?”

Matt blinks at him, all big eyes and a boyish smile, and dares to shrug his shoulders like he can’t feel the tension rolling off Shiro in big, clammy waves.

“Hm? I don’t know.”

The headache Shiro never managed to shake makes itself known with a throb.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

Shiro’s shouting draws attention. More aliens turn their heads, consider Shiro with mean expressions. He doesn’t know what their problem is - he doesn’t care. He _needs_ to find Keith. Before its too late.

“He went hunting this morning,” Matt says, all sunshine and no worries. “Zombie outbreak and all.”

“Zombies,” Shiro repeats.

“Zombies,” Matt confirms. “Biological mutation, plant zombies. Whatever. It’s all the same thing.”

Shiro forces himself to exhale. All the air leaves his body through his nose, hot and quick, like a bull. Matt’s smile falters as the air hits his face.

“You told me Keith was injured,” Shiro says very slowly.

The young man only raises his hands and shakes his head.

“No I didn’t,” he laughs, exasperated. “I told you to get here before its too late. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Matt is too smart for his own good, and Shiro wants to throttle him. He lets his shoulders sink but he still feels twisted up inside, emotionally jet-lagged.

“Too late for what?”

Matt’s smile becomes a thin line.

“You should talk to Keith about it,” he says.

……………………………………………………………………………

Shiro leaves base with a briefing and a weapon.

The briefing comes from Kolivan, and the weapon is from Krolia. It looks like a high-tech shotgun, like something from an eighties movie. Shiro huffs, admiring the chrome gleam. It’s fun to be off-planet again, faced with the unknown. Its good to see Krolia too, he thinks, despite the bittersweet way she looks at him.

He takes in Kolivan’s briefing like a sponge. The biological mutations are big. Really big. Mostly plant-based, but sentient enough to cause trouble. They bleed, Shiro learns. Strong and hungry but they open beautifully for luxite blades. They’re not immune to shotguns either.

Shiro sets off only an hour after landing. The Garrison-issued bodysuit feels a little tighter than the last time Shiro wore it and the fabric doesn’t fare well in the heat. His skin beads with sweat as he wades into the jungle, arrested by the beauty of it.

Flowers the size of mattresses. Vines as thick as Shiro’s arm. He sees birds with scales, insects the weight of a dog. Mice with glowing, lilac tails. The atmosphere chatters like it does on earth. The sky is almost blue.

He pauses for a moment to breathe in the sticky-sweet air. Then he sets off again - eager to find Keith (despite the numerous reassurances from Krolia he was healthy and unharmed). The thought of seeing him again conjures something thrilling and naive in Shiro.

It also conjures dread.

Its been a _long_ time since they spoke one-on-one. Sure, he’s seen the boy over the years. Glimpses of his face over comms, sometimes on television screen. Keith’s always busy. Always wanted. Shiro’s not surprised by any of it - he knows that Keith is special.

Never doubted it.

The last time he saw the boy was on the morning of Shiro’s wedding.

Keith was resplendent in a blood red tie. There were flowers in his hair and his cheeks were flush, they way they got before everything became too much. Fat, warm tears dribbled down his cheeks. His mouth hesitated over words Shiro knew he couldn’t ask.

“Shiro, _please_.”

It was quiet in the dressing room. Shiro’s stomach prickled with champagne and butterflies. Keith’s lip quivered, voice ragged like he’d been sobbing since dawn.

 _Please_.

It hit like a punch to hear Keith beg. The boy had always been violently unselfish, especially toward Shiro. He knew the sacrifice Keith made to peel back his carefully stitched facade and to show Shiro where he was aching most. He knew what Keith had come to ask of him.

Shiro wishes that Keith’s heartache on the morning of his wedding had come as a surprise.

But Keith’s love for him was always obvious. Just like the scar that split his cheek, the one that Shiro gave him. It was shiny with tears, wrinkled where Keith’s face screwed up and he hide his face inside his hand.

“I’m s-sorry,” the boy choked.

Shiro hates the memory. Even more he hates the way he just stood there, silent, and pretended he didn’t know why Keith was crying. In a way he felt grateful Keith hadn’t asked him to run away with him - because Shiro was never able to say no to the boy.

Maybe he wanted to.

 _Stars_ , the things he’d do for Keith. The risks he’d take if only the boy requested it of him. But it didn’t matter what Shiro wanted anymore.

He lost all rights to anything he wanted the day he tried to kill Keith.

So he took Keith in his arms as he sobbed, squeezed him hard against his chest- and then he married Curtis.

The memory makes Shiro stop dead in his tracks.

The trees rustle and breath in. A breeze cools the sweat on his nape. Shiro wipes his brow, so tangled in his own thoughts that the sudden _snap_ of wood spooks him. He jumps out of his skin, whipping around to see a shadow in the tree-line.

Panting.

He hears a heavy breath, an echo of crushed vegetation beneath heavy paws. Shiro clutches his gun until the metal groans. He holds his breath so he can listen. His skin prickles like it did at camp - someone is watching him.

Something.

The shadow moves forward until sunlight falls upon it. Shiro’s relief rushes out in a loud gush, his chest deflating as he recognises blue-black fur.

“Kosmo,” he exhales. “Who’s a good-”

The space wolf bounds toward him at a break-neck speed. Shiro opens his mouth but his shout is cut short, his back slammed against the earth. The trees slide sideways and the sky is looming over him - and there’s a sharp _crack_ of ozone.

Between one heartbeat and the next Shiro finds himself in an open, grassy field.

A long, pink tongue drags up the man’s cheek and he’s too stunned to fight it. He sits up and watches the breeze ripple through the field. Its like a scene from home, nostalgic enough to make Shiro relax. He finds Kosmo’s side and gives him a grateful pet. Even the overbearing sun feels good from here.

Then a giant, severed head lands at Shiro’s feet.

Searing, black blood hits his bodysuit and splatters his face. It drips off Shiro’s eyelashes. It seeps into his boots. The taste is in his mouth, acidic and something familiar. Like fresh cut grass. The head before him twitches, the light dying from its deep, dark eyes.

“What the fuck,” Shiro mutters.

The head is the size of his chest, and it’s pale and scaly and wriggling. There’s sharp teeth nestled in its maw, and the skin of its slain throat has been cut with perfect accuracy. Its like something from a horror movie.

Like a zombie.

A giant, plant-like zombie.

Shiro scrambles backwards to escape the twitching skull, boots slipping in the warm earth. He rushes backward until a large, translucent goop of _something_ lands between his knees. There’s a chilling growl. A billow of sticky air. When Shiro looks up he sees teeth.

The biological mutation is at least the height of three men. It rears upward and takes the sunlight with it, drool seeping down its throat. Shiro rolls to the side as it plummets downward, cratering the earth where he once lay. Rocks and debris scatter over him. He throws himself forward and escapes the second strike.

There’s a raspy shout as luxite hits wet scales.

Shiro slows his roll and whips upright in time to see another spray of blood, this time catching the light. Its like gasoline, a rainbow smeared with black. Steam rises from the wound and when the warm blood hits him a second time Shiro doesn’t flinch.

The figure that rides atop the monster’s spine is unmistakeable. Dressed in his senior uniform, a waspish waist to match a long braid of black hair. Petite and terrifying, sword wielded above his head as the creature thrashes its long neck.

Keith jumps, lands cat-like in the grass with a soft grunt. _Beautiful_ , Shiro thinks. Beautiful and lethal. The zombie sways to the side and writhes in agony. It swipes for Keith, who misses it, and somersaults over the earth. When he comes up the creature trips his foot, and he tumbles. Shiro lurches forward on instinct, hand shooting out faster than he can run.

He throws Keith free of the monster’s descent before it grasses to the dirt, steam rising from its twitching body. Keith is crumpled in the grass, cradled by the width of Shiro’s prosthetic hand. The man runs to join them both, relieved when he feels small fingers wrap around his thumb.

“I had that,” Keith grits.

Keith looks... good.

 _Really good_ , Shiro thinks.

He's not blind, he knows the boy is a galaxy heartthrob - but something's changed since the last time he's seen him. The planet's atmosphere agrees with Keith's dewy skin, makes his lashes seem longer. His jawline sharper. Even his frown is pretty, blinking back at Shiro unimpressed.

The man guides him to his feet and notices instantly how tall Keith's grown. Still not as tall as him but his legs are much longer. Shiro wants to say something. _Wow_ , perhaps. What else is there to say? It's obvious Keith has flourished in the years apart.

But the boy beats him to it.

“What are you doing here?” Keith asks.

There’s pain in his voice. Shiro swallows.

“Matt told me you were hurt.”

Keith’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. His eyes, for just a second, a big and hopeful. Like he’s seventeen again. He’s always been so see-through with his emotions, always wore his heart unwillingly upon his sleeve. He frowns, doing his best to squash his feelings.

"That’s why you’re here?”

Shiro swears he sounds disappointed.

“Of course,” Shiro replies, carefully. “You’re my best friend.”

It’s the wrong answer. Keith’s shoulders drop. His gaze flicks from Shiro’s face, to his chest, to someplace over his shoulder. He exhales, combing his long braid across his shoulder and wrapping it around his throat. He wears his wounded pride so prettily.

“I’m not hurt,” Keith says, stepping past Shiro. “Matt’s an idiot.”

Even under all the blood and gunk Shiro can smell him. Its a good smell. Like a soft t-shirt. Like cherry lip balm half melted by the sun.

“You’re good at that,” he says, just to break the looming silence. “Killing those creatures, I mean.”

Keith stoops to pick Shiro’s shotgun off the ground and when he tosses it to him he meets his eyes. He smiles a little, a shy thing. Polite mostly - but something’s missing. Something time has stolen.

“Thanks Shiro,” he says.

Looking at Keith is like touching a bruise. Shiro breathes in and out, and mirrors his smile.

"It's so good to see you again," the man blurts.

It's the understatement of the year, Shiro knows. Keith's polite smile becomes a blush. He ducks his head, avoids the affection like he always has. It's a small win for Shiro.

"Yeah. You too," Keith says.

There's so much space between them, each movement so fragile. Shiro steps forward and Keith stumbles back, moved by thick air that separates them from each other. 

“There’s a lot of men here,” Shiro comments, desperate not to lose Keith to silence again. “Seems like you’ve got things under control.”

Keith shakes his head and suddenly his face is pink. He allows Shiro to step closer to him this time but he keeps his head lowered, his eyes focused on the earth.

“Its just the Blades and I,” Keith says, quietly. “The rest are here for my Taming.”

“Taming?” Shiro echoes.

The boy finally looks up. He scans Shiro’s face again, looks right through him. His eyebrows meet, his mouth tugged down in the corners.

“You really don’t know,” he says, disheartened. “It’s nothing. Just a stupid Galra thing.”

Shiro wants to say he’d always liked Keith’s stupid Galra things. The sharpened canines. The way his eyes yellow when he’s worked up. But the purring would have to be Shiro’s favourite so far.

“If its an important part of your life I want to be involved, Keith.”

Keith stops in his tracks. He makes a small noise, a huff. A laugh? Shiro wonders.

“It’s really nothing, Shiro.”

Keith doesn’t move, seemingly weighing a thought in his head. He opens and closes his fist, the fabric of his bodysuit creaking. He frowns when he finally finds his words.

“I heard about Curtis,” Keith eventually says. "I'm sorry."

It shocks a laugh from Shiro. He doesn't know why.

Keith’s pops the knuckles of his hand and makes that small noise again. Then he turns and heads down a path that leads to where the jungle grows thick again.

……………………………………………………………………………

Anuveon gets cold at night.

Shiro wants to ask Keith if this planet reminds him of home but he hasn’t seen him since they got back to camp. The man takes opportunity to wash blood from his hair and pick dirt from beneath his fingernails. He stands under the spray to keep warm, water dribbling off his nose.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. Travelling. Adventure. And, on a deeper and level, the joy of killing something. Seeing Keith drag his sword from dying flesh triggered private memories of his own, sick thrills collected in his time as Champion. He wants to kill a zombie of his own.

With clean hair and spearmint teeth Shiro heads to the largest tent in camp. The sun has set and light glows from within. There’s a fire in the centre, licks of fuchsia flames, surrounded by dozens of bodies. The earth’s kicked up from their heavy boots, the atmosphere busy with loud voices.

Although the bodies wear armour, some still speckled with blood, Shiro senses this is a celebration more than anything else. Perhaps something to do with what Keith mentioned - his Taming. There’s music, the scent of charred meat. When offered a cup of Nuvil Shiro takes it, wrinkling his nose at the taste.

The bitter liquor eases the sense of eyes returning to his back. Shiro’s been stared at like he’s walked into a party he wasn’t invited to. He hears whispers but its nothing new. He ignores them all, swallowing more drink.

“Hello stranger,” comes a voice behind his ear, followed by two arms.

Matt loops them around Shiro’s shoulders and hangs a full bottle of Nuvil in front of his face. Shiro snatches at it, refilling his cup.

“Everyone is staring at me,” he says.

Matt circles Shiro to stand before him, gesturing broadly with his hands.

“There’s a lot to stare at, big guy.”

A second body brushes against his side and Shiro smells Keith before he sees him. That soft, sweet sun scent. He turns finds him dressed all in black, a heavy fur coat around his shoulders. His hair has been washed and braided again, encircling his throat. His eyes are near onyx, cheekbones sharp in the dim light. He reaches up and touches Shiro’s forelock.

“It might be the hair,” he says.

His words are soft. Playful, almost. Shiro’s not sure what he’s done to deserve such kindness but he leans into the touch. Its taken away just as quickly, Keith’s almost-smile disappearing. He holds his own glass of liquor and his cheeks are rosy like when Keith would sneak beer into the Garrison dormitories.

“Hi Keithy,” Matt purrs.

The boy narrows his eyes.

“Mattie.”

 _Mattie?_ Shiro scrunches his nose.

Keith looks him over with a calmer, more drawn out consideration than he did earlier. His eyes flick down, then up. When they settle on Shiro’s face they linger long enough to make the man cough.

“Shiro,” he greets.

“Hey buddy.”

There’s that whisper of a smile again. Shiro presses his mouth against his cup to hide his own. Keith has changed a lot. New scars. A quieter, calmer posture. He’s a man now and that coat would look ridiculous on anyone else - but Keith looks like the king of barbarians.

“Can I talk to you?” Keith says, turning his attention toward Matt.

The brunette clenches his teeth and forces a smile.

“Sure,” he says, clipped.

They both spare a glance toward Shiro before Keith is dragging Matt away. They’re the same height now and its odd watching the boy manhandle his best friend so easily. Shiro turns back to the fire but a rough shoulder collides with his, spilling his drink across his hand.

“ _Hey_ ,” Shiro growls, a little drunk.

“It’s him,” says a gruff voice. “The Black Paladin.”

The voice belongs to a stocky alien with ruddy skin. He speaks to a second, thinner one beside him, both dressed in thick fur and protective armour. Shiro’s taller than them both but they size him up, sneering when he bristles.

“I’m not -”

“He’s not as big as they say,” the skinnier one says.

Shiro clenches his prosthetic until his cup cracks. The aliens snicker, taking one last scathing look before they walk away. The man looks back and catches Keith and Matt bickering across the crowd. They’re too far away to hear what they are saying but Keith looks distinctly furious. He jabs his finger in Shiro’s direction and the man ducks his head as they both look up.

A moment later Matt’s at his side again, followed by a fuming Keith.

“Can I have that?” He asks, taking Shiro’s cup and finishing it with a loud gulp.

“Is everything okay?”

Keith’s eyes always get a little glassy when he’s mad. He used to burst into tears when he got too angry as a teenager, he’s come a long way. Instinctually, Shiro reaches up to touch Keith’s cheek. It stuns him just long enough to allow a brief touch before Keith shrugs him off, like his touch _hurts_.

“I’m fine,” Keith lies.

“Isn’t it so crazy Shiro’s here?” Matt says loudly, forcing a laugh. “Just like old times.”

Keith shoots a glare at him. Shiro's glad he's not on the receiving end of it, for it makes the planet feel all the colder.

“Because you lied to him,” Keith snaps. “That’s the reason that you’re here, right Shiro?”

“Right,” Shiro answers, knee-jerk and confused.

Keith raises an eyebrow at Matt and their argument seems to settle. Shiro’s pleased - he’s too tired for this back-and-forth. He bumps Keith’s side and offers him a smile but the boy is all out of ones to return. He doesn’t leave though and that’s more than Shiro could have hoped for.

Suddenly there’s a ruckus from across the tent, a ripple of murmurs and commotion. All three turn toward the mouth of the room and see the crowd is splitting for a new arrival.

“Oh,” Matt says, nudging Keith’s shoulder. “Another one.”

Keith presses his lips into a line and hums. He finishes his Nuvil and hands the cup to Matt. Then he shrugs off his heavy coat and turns to Shiro.

"Can you hold this for me?" He asks.

Beneath the coat Keith wears a skin-tight, black bodysuit. Shiro hesitates, his face warm. _From the Nuvil_ , he tells himself. Keith doesn't wait for an answer and presses the coat to his chest. Then he unfurls his hair from around his throat. It hangs down his back like a whip.

Then he leaves them both and heads to where the crowd is parting, meeting the newcomer in the middle of the crowd.

Its too loud to hear anything other than the shouts of onlookers, and Shiro doesn’t speak the language but he knows they’re calling Keith’s name. The boy greets the newcomer, the onlookers stirring with frenzy. All he sees is Keith’s back, dwarfed by the Galra that stands almost twice as tall.

Silence comes when the stranger speaks.

His voice is too low to hear. Shiro feels the reverberation of it in his chest. He looks to Matt but the young man is watching, fixated.

“This one’s kinda handsome,” he says, not looking away from the exchange.

Shiro opens his mouth to ask what he means but is cut off by a growl. He’s not prepared for the way the much, much larger Galra lunges at Keith, swiping his claw through the space he once stood. Keith ducks effortlessly but Shiro’s already moving forward. Matt slaps an arm across his chest and holds him back.

“Don’t,” he warns, his expression carrying more weight than his arm. “Keith’s got this.”

The crowd cries for blood and Shiro’s pulse spikes. He’s reminded of how animal the Galra are - the grunts, the bared teeth. He can see Keith’s sclera flash yellow as his face catches the light. He moves quicker than Shiro ever could, light on his feet but brutal with his fury.

The larger Galra lands a punch to Keith’s ribs and Shiro flinches. The boy rolls into the legs of the onlookers, curling up on himself for a moment. His chest rises and falls, his body minuscule compared to the Galra that bends over him and steps down on his chest.

“Yield,” the Galra growls.

Shiro snorts. Keith’s too strong to yield. Voices shout disapproval from across the crowd. He hears Kolivan chime in. He notices Krolia is watching too. She seems so calm that Shiro forces himself to take a deep breath. Its a privilege to watch Keith fight like this. No restraints, truly wild. A thing of nature. 

There’s a flash of action, the Galra tumbles backward and hits the ground with a loud thump before he scrambles upright again. Matt whoops. Shiro digs his tongue into his cheek. He taught Keith that. But he can't take credit for the way the boy uses his legs to grasp hold of the Galra's neck, toppling him down again. That's all Keith, one part alien strength, and the other pure instinct.

“Yield,” Keith says, squeezing around his throat.

The applause is deafening. Keith stands and leaves him to settle in the dust. He's immediately gathered into the arms of fellow Blades and a genuine smile breaks across his face.

Galra are tactile, Shiro tells himself when he feels the tickle of jealousy. He remembers Keith telling him that. Of how touch-starved he was before he met the Blades.

“He came here to fight Keith?” Shiro asks Matt, his heart pounding as the adrenaline dies down.

“Yeah. Didn’t he tell you? This is his Taming.”

Shiro watches Keith settle back into easy comradely with the Blades. He's so, so different from the boy he used to be. Charismatic, even. He says something and it pulls a gruff laugh from Kolivan.

“He didn’t explain,” Shiro admits.

Matt ushers him into a make shift booth of broken steel and supply containers. He pours Shiro another cup of Nuvil but the man's still staring after Keith. Matt grabs his chin and forces him to make eye contact.

“Keith’s approaching Galran maturity,” Matt says. "Six days from now he'll be at his most susceptible to a mate."

 _Oh_.

“A mate,” Shiro echoes.

"That's why all these guys are here," Matt continues, serious. "For Keith."

Suddenly it makes sense. The way that Shiro's stared at like he's competition. The way he feels he isn't welcome. Realisation sinks in and Shiro drinks more to drown the feeling in his chest.

"It's one of those weird, violent Galra traditions," Matt continues. "They all do it. Especially the Blades. For the six days Keith's suitors will approach him in a fight. If they win, it means Keith's found his mate."

Shiro's head is instantly filled with the thought of Keith losing to that larger, stronger Galra. It makes him sick. _What if Keith doesn't want this?_ His worries must tattoo his face because Matt laughs at him.

"I can see you thinking," he says. "It's not like that. They don't force him or anything. It's hormonal, alien pheromones or something. When Keith finds the right mate his body will simply... give in."

"Give in," Shiro echoes, in shock.

It doesn't sit right with him. He doesn't like the idea of Keith having no control over who he chooses. He still holds his heavy coat in his lap, his smell clinging to the fur.

"He doesn't have to pick someone," Matt says, "but I think he will. Heats are rough without a mate and Keith's last was horrible. He was out of commission for a month. I've never seen him that way before."

There's that sting of jealously again. That stone weight in his gut, the bead beneath his rib. _How long has Matt been here?_ Shiro wonders. _When did he and Keith get so close?_ There was a time When Keith would have come to Shiro in his most vulnerable moments but now it feels like he knows nothing of the boy.

Shiro considers the Blades with their too-familiar hands, and the stranger aliens too - the ones that cheer. The ones that don't. 

“One of these guys is gonna be Keith’s boyfriend?” 

Shiro hopes he doesn't sound as disappointed as he feels. He's lost track of Keith, his slight body lost amongst the chaos of men. Matt grabs his chin again and jerks him back, a little rougher than expected.

"His _husband_ , Shiro."

He hasn't seen Matt look this serious since the war. It's jarring, enough to cut through the fuzz of Nuvil nectar in his blood.

_Husband._

"This is serious," Matt says. "Galra mate for life. Do you understand? They don't break up. They don't get divorced."

He says the word with venom. Shiro flinches.

"Why did you bring me here?" He says, shaking out of Matt's grasp.

The young man stares at him as if he's stupid. Shiro certainly feels that way. 

……………………………………………………………………………


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, this took me forever to finish! And I didn't intend for it to be this long... ahah...   
> Anyways, I hope y'all like it. It would really mean a lot if you left a comment/kudos.

Men lie.

_Human_ men, Keith corrects himself.

For all the awkwardness of the Galra, Keith finds their bluntness comforting. Especially in manners such as his heat and Taming. Even the suitors who don’t share a heritage with him act with candour. They come for Keith. They fight. They leave. It’s honest - and Keith communicates best in black and white.

Human men operate in shades of grey.

Keith narrows his eyes at the only two human men on Anuveon. Matt has that big, fake, _stupid_ smile on his face. Shiro, who is usually the tallest man in the room, is dwarfed by the surrounding aliens. His forelock sticks out like a white flag. His bodysuit is super tight. Keith blows hot air out his nose.

The man looks good.

Very good, and he hates it. Hates how painfully handsome the man is. Hates how bare his ring finger looks. Most of all Keith hates how, for one painful second, he’d thought Shiro was here for his Taming. His heart thumps, still bruised from the day before.

As if sensing the knives aimed at his head Matt looks up. His eyes widen and he forces his smile even wider. Keith bares his own teeth back and the young man looks down.

_Good_ , he thinks.

Keith wants him to feel bad for the thing he’s done. The cruel, thoughtless, misguided and yet disreputably _Matthew-Holt-esque_ thing. As if his Taming weren’t trial enough. Shiro’s presence makes Keith’s chest hurt. It stirs up buried feelings. It makes his eyes burn as he walks away.

“You are angry with your friend,” Krolia says from beside him.

His mom is as blunt as any Galra but she often misses the human nuances Keith clings to. He shakes his head and when she frowns, confused, he feels a little guilty for it.

“I’m not,” he says.

He is, but there are bigger things to worry about today. The zombie infestation isn’t fixing itself and, despite the numerous men gathered on the planet, only a handful are there to actually fix the problem. The rest mill about with their eyes on Keith, following his every movement.

If it were up to Keith he’d never planned his Taming around a biological emergency. It should have happened on Daibazaal, surrounded by the Blades. _Only_ the Blades. Not this… menagerie of admirers that follow his every movement. He tries to ignore how the crowd has almost doubled the day before, but its hard to block out the staring.

It’s another blistering day.

Humid. Hazy clouds gather on the mountains and every movement makes Keith sweat. He tells himself its the tropical weather and not the beginnings of his heat. He woke up with it in his stomach, the familiar dread of his body turning against him. Keith lets his head tip back and a cool breeze kisses his nose.

The zombies of Anuveon love this weather. Something about the moisture in the air, the soil ripe for infestation. They love the sun too, unlike the B-grade monster movies he and Shiro used to watch.

_Shiro_.

Keith looks back to find that white forelock again but is blocked by Matt’s sudden appearance. He’s grubby, hair poking out of the little bun it’s in. It shouldn’t look as good as it does, and he shouldn’t smell this nice on a planet without deodorant. But Keith is especially susceptible to scents as of late so he wrinkles his nose.

“Hey,” Matt gleams, boyishly charming. “Krolia.”

He tips back his head to greet Keith’s mom. She stares down her nose at him.

“Matthew,” she responds cooly.

Krolia squeezes the back of Keith’s neck, fondly, then bends to press her nose against his brow. She breathes in and Keith does the same, returning her nuzzle.

“I’m heading to the west quadrant,” she says to Keith. “Be safe.”

“You too.”

She brushes past the both of them, duel axes strapped over her shoulders. Matt leans into the space she left behind, taking a similar deep breath.

“ _Woah_. You smell nice.”

“I know!” Keith snaps.

As if he’s somehow missed how every other being stops to smell the air around him. How their pupils dilate, something animal. How Keith’s own smell is something unique, something beckoning to each man. It’s sickening.

“I don’t have time to talk.”

It’s a partial truth. There’s zombies for Keith to kill, and an irritability inside him that will only be satisfied by gasoline-black blood. Matt ignores him, falling into pace beside him as he sips the Asphodel nebula’s closest equivalent to coffee.

“You can’t stay mad at me,” he says, mouth wet.

“Try me.”

Matt takes a purposefully obnoxious sip. Keith quickens his pace, heading for the supplies tent. Its cooler in the shade, the dirt kicked up from Galra on the same mission as he - sharpening Blades, collecting hydration packs to take into the jungle.

“You’re really hot when you’re angry,” Matt says, still hovering.

Keith scrunches up his face and jerks his elbow blindly behind him. There’s an _oomph_ , a dull smack. Keith smirks, tucking a few things into the pouch across his hip.

“He abandoned the Atlas,” Matt says, suddenly.

Keith says nothing. His heart plummets to his gut.

“Literally left it floating in space. Just took off. Didn’t even tell anyone.”

“He thought I was hurt,” Keith says under his breath.

The wounded tone of his voice makes Matt shut his big mouth for a moment. Keith collects everything he needs, his jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache. He turns on his heel just to be met with the sight of Shiro collecting supplies on the opposite side of the tent.

“So why’s he still here?” Matt says close to his ear.

Keith’s feet are rooted to the earth. Shiro’s talking to Kolivan, his face schooled and serious for battle. He watches as he’s handed a sword, not that silly little gun from yesterday. Keith knows he fights better with a blade. He has the scar to prove it.

“I don’t know,” Keith murmurs.

Shiro’s beautiful. A little dirty from the morning but his eyes are bright like sand. He was born to be in the middle of the action, not bridled or domesticated. This is the Shiro he likes best, even if it hurts to see.

“Why did you do this?” Keith asks, eyes on Shiro.

“Hm?”

Matt’s nonchalance, Shiro’s pretty physique - it triggers Keith. He whirls around and shoves Matt twice, forcing him to stumble out the tent and into sunlight. He drops his coffee and its trample by the traffic. Keith pushes him against a wall, fury polluting his blood.

“Did you do this on purpose?” He barks.

The hurt in his voice is embarrassing. It turns heads. Keith can’t swallow it down. Its too big, consuming. Matt sinks at the sound of it, eyes wide.

“No, Keith I-” He exhales. “Of course not!”

_Stars_ , Keith could hit him right now! For all the kindnesses Matt has done for him, for all the friendship he’s gifted throughout the years - he can be fucking unbearable. Keith’s eyes shine and he pushes Matt again, although with less lustre than the first.

“I w-would-” Matt grabs Keith’s wrist and gently squeezes it. “I wouldn’t hurt you like that. Either of you.”

Keith searches his face for a human lie. He scrubs his glove angrily across his own and it comes back wet. Matt breathes in, out. His eyes are sorry, his touch even more so. Stupid, stupid heat. It always made him so emotional.

“That guy last night,” Matt begins, choosing his next words carefully. “Did you… feel anything?”

“You know I don’t believe in that pheromone thing.”

Matt makes a face, glancing out beyond Keith. No doubt at all the suitors and their envious glares. The air feels thick with them. Keith can’t wait to be out in the jungle again.

“Not you too,” he groans. “You’re just like my mom. It won’t work on me.”

Keith’s not sure why he feels disappointed. Its just another nuance of being neither human nor Galra. Matt flicks his eyes to Keith’s figure and darts them down his length. He shrugs his shoulders, shifting his jaw to the side.

“It might,” he says.

Keith snorts.

And maybe he is being defensive. Maybe he feels scared. The thought of being reduced to his baser instincts isn’t… thrilling. But the magnetism of a soulmate isn’t a bad thought either. That’s how his mom describes it - romantic. Natural.

Keith looks over his shoulder and catches the eye of a handful of admirers. It’s hard to imagine anyone of them are destined to be Keith’s mate. They perk up at his attention, a murmur ripples through the crowd.

“So… you’re still cool with our agreement?” Matt asks, as if reading his mind.

“Yes Matt," Keith says, very softly.

“But with Shiro here -”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

Keith didn’t wait around for destiny. He made his own.

……………………………………………………………………………

It’s going to rain.

As Keith approaches the outskirts of camp and looks down at the valley he can see the dark clouds creeping closer. He smells it on the breeze too, not exactly like earth but not a foreign smell either. It calms the anxious warmth that fidgets in his belly.

“Keith! Wait up.”

Shiro’s voice hits him square in the back, clear and heartbreaking. Keith doesn’t turn around, he waits for the man to come to him. Listens to his heavy steps wade through the grass and sees the way Kosmo trots down to greet him.

_Traitor_ , Keith thinks.

“Can I come with you?”

Keith turns to find a sweaty, smiling Shiro clutching a large sword rather sheepishly. He lowers his eyes as if he expects Keith to spit his affections back in his face. Keith’s stomach turns at the idea - he doesn’t hate him. He could _never_ hate Shiro.

But he hesitates long enough that his smile begins to fall.

“Sure,” Keith blurts.

Shiro’s eyes light up. His smile reintroduces itself. He drops his hand to pet Kosmo, takes his place at Keith’s side like no time has passed. Keith turns back to the horizon, swallowing down every vulnerable word that is crawling up his throat.

“I know you don’t want me here,” Shiro tells him.

Keith closes his eyes and exhales.

_If only you knew_.

“It’s not-”

Keith pauses, shakes his head.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t mind,” he adds - to soften.

“You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings,” Shiro says. “Divorce really thickens your skin.”

He laughs. That same old, self-deprecating laugh. Keith forces himself to look at the man. _Really_ look at him. Stars, he’s gotten bigger. Older too. The lines around his eyes are so sexy, Keith thinks. He blows hot air out his nose, annoyed with himself. Two years away from Shiro and for what? He still melts at the sight of him.

And the smell of him…

Keith rubs his glove over his nose and curses his heightened, Galra senses.

“I’m not angry at you,” he says.

_I’m angry at myself_.

Shiro nods but his lips are schooled into a thin, disappointed smile.

“I’m happy to see you,” Keith forces.

Shiro laughs and it rumbles Keith’s chest.

“You’re bad at lying,” says his oldest friend. “Always have been.”

Shiro nudges him with his shoulder and the boy stumbles forward, surprised. Shiro smirks down at him and there he is - the man Keith knows. His best friend. He’s seventeen again, staring up at the man who was everything he wanted to be. To have.

It was Keith who ruined it.

It was Keith who had to complicate things with his silly, needy heart.

“Jerk,” he says softly.

Shiro’s eyes crease as he grins, then he heads down the hill and toward the thick of jungle. Kosmo keeps to his side and Keith shakes his head. He follows, and it feels like the old days. Like Voltron days.

It begins to rain within the hour but its pleasant to Keith’s skin. He lets the droplets land in his hair, his eyelashes. He even sticks out his tongue to catch them. It sounds nice when it lands on the big leaves that shroud the sun. It washes the orange dust from his clothes.

They’re paused beneath a wide, tall tree when Shiro’s communicate pad pings. Keith sucks from a hydration pouch, watching as Shiro’s brow creases and he sighs.

“It’s Veronica,” he explains when he catches Keith staring.

“Is it killing you to know the Atlas runs just fine without you?”

Shiro’s eyes narrow and he shoves the device back into his pocket. He goes to open his mouth but Keith cuts him off.

“When’s the last time you took a holiday?”

“My wedding.”

_Oh_.

Keith snaps his mouth shut and looks down at his radar. There’s several large, moving masses up ahead and his hand itches to cut them in half.

“Keith, about that day-”

“It’s fine,” Keith says quickly. “I’ve moved on.”

It tastes like a lie. Keith pushes his tongue into his cheek and its acrid. Maybe he might have believed his own words two days ago.

“You’ve moved on,” Shiro echoes.

Keith nods, grateful he’s faced away from Shiro.

“I’m choosing a mate,” he says with a lump in his throat. “A Taming is a big deal for a Galra.”

It’s difficult to keep the poison from his voice. He’s not sure if Shiro doesn’t hear it or if he chooses to swallow it anyway. That heavy, gentle hand touches his shoulder.

“I want to be there for it,” Shiro says.

Keith’s stomach flips.

“For my Taming?” He splutters.

He finds Shiro’s face and the man is serious, albeit a little taken back by the way Keith’s face colours. _No_ , is his knee-jerk reaction. How can Shiro just… _say_ that? He knows he’s turned tomato red, can feel the blood bloom across his nose and cheeks. He huffs, wriggling out of Shiro’s unassuming touch.

He doesn’t bring it up again.

They find three zombies not long after. The jungle opens to a clearing and the creatures are strewn through the lush vegetation. Almost camouflaged but for their glossy scales. The rain glints off their towering forms and Keith transforms his blade, eager to sink the luxite into something thrashing.

Keith’s always loved a challenge and these creatures are the perfect one for him. Keith slays one, and then another. He helps Shiro take down a third and he’s panting, almost smiling. He’s splashed with black blood and the smell stings his nose. Its nice to smell something other than the desire of lingering suitors.

Shiro finishes off the fourth and Keith watches. He takes it down easily. In fact, he plays with it. It’s always a privilege to watch Shiro fight. He moves fast for someone so large, with a primal force that came from months of trauma. Keith would be jealous of his power if not for the knowledge of how Shiro gained it.

But stars, he is strong.

Big and strong. Keith feels a little stupid as he watches, his body warm. Shiro takes down the zombie with a grunt, its body rocks the earth and shakes rain from the trees. It thrashes for a while, flicks out the tendrils of its dying body. It’s nothing to Shiro. Keith moves closer, his brain stuffed with cotton wool, impressed by the display.

Shiro would make a good mate.

A perfect one.

Keith’s stomach twists like a wet towel. His heart rabbits in his throat. Shiro pulls his blade free from the creature, black and dripping, and Keith’s breath catches. Even at a distance he can see the vicious square to Shiro’s jaw. It makes his mouth dry. It makes his knees weak.

_I want to be there for it_.

The thought of Shiro at his Taming is…

Keith shakes his head but he’s succumbed to it. The idea makes him feel sick in a nice way. His mind runs with it, makes his stumble forward as if drawn to Shiro’s raw aggression. He remembers that same expression from their fight many years ago. He wonders how it would have felt to give in instead of fight it.

To be tamed.

Keith _whines_. The sound is past his lips before he can reign it in. He steps forward again like moth to a flame. The earth gives out beneath him. He slips. He falls. A muddy slope hits his back and his foot catches in the twisted grass. He rolls, a sharp pain stabbing up his leg.

“Ahh!”

Keith tumbles into waist-high grass and curls into himself. His mind is cleared, any foggy thoughts of Taming replaced by ones of agony. He hears his name called across the clearing. By the time he manages to sit up Shiro has already rushed to his side.

“Keith!”

His ankle radiates white, hot pain. His eyes water. Shiro smells like gasoline and rain and sweat, and his large hand cups Keith’s waist. It makes him whimper, and the rain that falls upon his skin practically evaporates.

“I’m fine,” Keith lies.

That big hand runs up his side and supports his back. Shiro leans across him and the rain stops. Keith feels small, allows himself to be readjusted in the grass and pulled against a warm body. He huffs when his cheek is pulled into Shiro’s chest. Matt was right. Shiro’s pecs really did get bigger.

“You’re flushed,” Shiro says.

His voice vibrates against Keith’s head. His prosthetic hand floats down and carefully removes his ankle from the knotted grass.

“I’m just…” Keith wets his mouth. “Just dizzy. My heat is coming.”

Shiro makes a noise of disagreement in his throat.

“I’m fine,” Keith repeats. “It’ll heal before we’re back at camp.”

“Let me look at it.”

Shiro’s hand dwarves the narrow of Keith’s ankle and he’s not sure he can stand skin-to-skin contact right now. He tries to pull his leg toward his chest but metal fingers encircle it.

“Shiro, really-”

Keith looks up and pauses. Shiro is giving him a look. _The_ look. The one he reserves for only the most dire occasions. Keith first saw it after his first fight with James Griffin. He last saw it the day he tried to fly his ship into the particle barrier on Naxzela.

It’s a look Keith doesn’t argue with.

Cowed, Keith allows Shiro to remove his boot. He flinches as the fabric shifts over his ankle. His hand clutches in the fabric of the man’s suit. He ducks his nose into his jacket and breathes it in. Shiro reaches down with his human hand and carefully rolls up the leg of Keith’s bodysuit.

His skin burns.

The rough pads of his fingertips are too much. Keith’s knee jerks inward and Shiro shushes him, so unbelievably patient. Peeking over the lapel of his jacket Keith can see his foot fits neatly in the width of Shiro’s hand. He gives it a gentle squeeze and his toes curl.

“ _Mm_.”

Shiro is terribly tender with his swollen ankle. His fingers edge over the bone, take note of where the heat radiates. He readjusts the position of his foot, pausing when Keith’s breath hitches. His thumb sinks into the arch of his foot. His pinky smoothes against the side. He squeezes him again, making a thoughtful noise low in his chest.

Keith hates it.

He’s spent two whole years carefully stitching up his wounds - and now Shiro undoes them with his fingers. What Keith thought were weathered scars now dissolve like wet paper. He’s so frustrated with himself. So embarrassed. Keith’s eyes water and he wipes at his face. Searing, fat tears dribble down his cheeks. He sobs.

“Keith?”

Shiro’s chest hitches.

“What’s wrong ba- buddy?”

Keith shivers. The rain has made the earth cool. Shiro is like a furnace. He hides his face but his ribs expand in another sob. The prosthetic blankets his back, presses Keith closer and closer until he goes stiff and jerks away.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Keith grits.

He grasps Shiro’s jacket and uses it to stand. The man rises with him, suffocatingly close. Keith doesn’t dare look up. He knows if he sees Shiro’s sincere, worried eyes he’ll only cry harder. He puts his bare foot on the earth and more pain ripples up his back.

“Ow,” he gasps.

“I’ll carry you back to camp.”

Keith tries to huff but his face is too wet. He grinds the heel of his palm into his eyes.

“No.”

He peeks out over his glove and Shiro is frowning at him.

“I’ll carry you,” he says again - and this time its not a suggestion.

He picks Keith up as easily as a bag of potatoes, bridal style, with his jacket draped over his body so he doesn’t get wet. Keith carries his boot while his bare foot catches the rain. He turns his head into Shiro’s chest so he won’t see his red face. A humiliating thought repeats over and over inside of his head.

This is exactly what a good mate would do.

The thought only brings Keith sadness. The emotion is an old friend to Keith. He’s had it since his dad died. He’s carried it through years of loss and the year of abandonment when Shiro was lost to the stars. It’s a feeling of being alone and it’s heavy. An anchor lost to sea, untethered to anything.

A burden.

The rocking of Shiro’s body as he walks calms Keith. His smell even more so. Like home. Like leather, and skin, and maybe soap. It makes his eyes heavy and his body relax. He’s boneless by the time they reach the outskirts of camp again.

“You can’t carry me into camp,” Keith says.

It’s the first thing he’s said in over an hour. Shiro doesn’t reply for a while. Keith looks up and examines the thick column of his throat, the seriousness of his stride.

“Embarrassed of me?”

Shiro doesn’t laugh but his chest vibrates. Keith scrunches up his face. He feels so warm. Fuzzy. Like a child.

“If you get your smell on me it’ll put a target on your back,” he explains.

Shiro’s chest hums again but he doesn’t answer. He shifts his arm and hitches Keith closer to his chest. The rain has lightened but the clouds linger, threatening more. There is even the promise of thunder on the horizon.

“It’s okay,” Shiro eventually says.

Keith’s not sure if he’s replying to him or if he’s soothing him. Keith believe the latter, anyway. He feels safe. Relaxed. The sadness still sits with him but it’s okay - just like Shiro said. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath of Shiro’s scent.

……………………………………………………………………………

Shiro can only breathe again when he’s underneath the shower.

Keith’s smell is stuck to him. The humid steam makes it worse, makes it cling inside his nose and his throat. He rolls his tongue into his cheek and tastes it. He’s never seen Keith in a heat before but the cloying miasma makes the hoards of hungry men make sense.

It’s sweet.

Not tooth-rottingly sweet. Sweet like fruit that’s a little too ripe.

And he feels a little bad as he rinses black blood from his hair. Keith’s bare foot in his hand, the feeling of his undivided vulnerability, is something Shiro’s missed. That was always something he prided himself on - how Keith gave him things he couldn’t give anyone else.

Its an unfortunate thought to have while he’s still shaking from the thrill of a fight. Taking down those zombies really geared Shiro up. His pulse is audible, his stomach tight. It satisfied a part of himself he’s buried for so long. The darker side.

The need to kill. To conquer.

Shiro’s been hard since the moment he plunged his sword into slimy flesh. It’s the adrenaline, a remnant from his time as Champion. He doesn’t think much of reaching down and holding his cock, giving it a squeeze that makes him hiss. His mind goes blank as he strokes it, a pleasure to replace the tension in his back.

It feels better than therapy.

He thinks of the last time he fucked something. And then he thinks of his ex-husband, nose scrunched. His anger bleeds to images of thrashing flesh, of a monster slain and crashing downward. Humbled under Shiro’s hands. Controlled. Power.

He thinks of Keith, too.

Its not the first time he’s seen his face with his hand around his cock. Keith is comfort, his home. It makes sense to think of his best friend. His weight against his chest. How sweet he smells. Shiro sees him drenched in tar-like blood. He sees him pressed into the grass with his hands either side of that lithe waist.

He sees tears in Keith’s eyes as his Galran arm bears down across his face and burns his cheek. He sees those same eyes slit, his teeth sharpen as he cries. Sees how he didn’t struggle as Shiro killed him, blindly faithful even in their last moment.

Shiro comes with a hitched gasp, with a gnawing feeling deep inside of him.

Guilt.

Shiro dries off and pulls on the same undershirt he wore into the jungle. He holds the fabric to his nose and breathes in, curious. Keith said he shouldn’t wear his smell. He said it could cause problems. Shiro breathes in again feeling homesick.

_If you get your smell on me…_

On his way to the main tent he notices the riled looks he gets. The suitors sniff the air. They show their teeth. Shiro holds his head higher and meets their gazes.

The main tent is rowdy, more aliens having arrived during the day. The smell of meat and liquor, the warm lick of the fire. Shiro shoulders his way between the bodies until he’s hit by a brick wall of a creature. He stumbles back and meets the eyes of a towering Vauczon.

“Little terran,” it spits at him.

Shiro’s teeth grit together and his prosthetic groans as it closes into a fist. The creature snuffs, seemingly pleased, and shoulders past him. It’s too big to avoid and Shiro staggers back, caught by a hand at the back of his neck.

“You should push him back,” Matt teases.

Shiro forces himself to relax. He unclenches his fist. He needs a drink, needs to wear off the edges of his blood-thirst so he doesn’t create a problem from thin air.

“It’s not worth it,” Shiro reasons.

Matt takes a long swig of the glass he’s holding before offering it to Shiro. He takes a sniff and the miasma burns - he drinks it anyway.

“You should show off a little,” Matt suggests, swinging an arm across Shiro’s shoulders. “They’re all talking about you. Think you’re washed up. Weak.”

“I’m not here for Keith,” Shiro says into his drink.

He catches the corner of Matt’s mouth as it curves upward.

“I didn’t say you were,” he sing-songs, nudging him toward a make-shift seat. “Ha. I can smell him on you.”

Shiro finishes off his drink, ignoring Matt’s perceiving comments. He doesn’t refuse a second drink when it comes his way, nor a third. He’s earned it. Besides, he can’t get the duel scent of killing and Keith’s heat out of his nose.

The boy shows up not long after, announced by a ripple of excitement amongst men. Shiro sees aliens crane their heads, bustle closer to get a glimpse of Keith. He wonders if all these men will fight him or if some are simply here to watch. Shiro stand and catches glimpse of a familiar black coat in the crowd.

“Oh man,” Matt says from beside him.

The crowd parts and Shiro sees his face. Keith is flush, a pretty pink. Like he’s run a mile - but his face is calm, his skin clean. He’s guarded by his mother and Kolivan, so petite between their looming forms. He catches Shiro’s eye for a moment, they’re glassy. He seems tired.

“Looks like his heat started early,” Matt says distantly, like he isn’t speaking to Shiro.

It annoys the man, how much he seems to know about Keith. How much time they’ve spent together. He spares a glance toward the other and Matt’s face is tense with concern. When he looks back to the crowd he doesn’t feel any better. The suitors are all rowdy. Shiro wonders if they smell it too - the sticky sweetness. His stomach twists with an emotion he doesn’t understand. He drowns the emotion with more liquor.

“Wonder who’s got the balls for it tonight?” Matt laughs.

Shiro stares into his dwindling drink.

“Hopefully someone better than the last guy,” he mutters.

He wonders if there’s too much venom in his tone because Matt is staring at him. His eyes are wide, a little incredulous. The young man tugs his arm, mouth schooled into a frown.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, dragging Shiro outside.

The rain is fairy light but there’s thunder in the darkness. Shiro shivers, his jacket still with Keith. Its cold, quiet. Literally everyone is inside where the action is.

“Keith’s going to pick someone,” Matt tells him, very seriously.

Shiro blinks.

“At his Taming,” Matt continues. “He told me.”

_What?_

_“_ Who? _”_

Matt looks back toward the tent and shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he rushes. “But he _is_ going to pick someone.”

Shiro presses his lips into a line.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Matt barks out a loud, joyless laugh. His breath comes out as fog. His hands grip his hair and pull it. Then he slaps Shiro’s face, one hand on each cheek until he’s got him pinned between his palms. He shakes his head back and forth until Shiro’s eyes go blurry.

“What the fuck.”

Shiro smacks his hands away like annoying insects. Matt continues to swat at him, rustling his forelock and pointing his finger into his forehead over and over again. _Tap tap tap_.

“Did you lose your brain in the divorce? Huh?”

Matt is practically shouting. What he lacks in height he makes up for in sobriety. Shiro scrunches up his face and pushes him away, stumbling into the canvas walls of the tent.

“You’re an idiot Shirogane,” the man bites. “You know that right? An idiot.”

Shiro doesn’t disagree with him but he’s too drunk for this conversation. He wants to go back inside. He wants to see Keith again. He turns toward the entrance but Matt easily pushes him back, herding him into a corner.

“There’s a hoard of fucking aliens in there _desperate_ for the chance to be with Keith,” he says. “And you could have had him without even trying.”

A cold stone slides to the bottom of Shiro’s stomach. He feels so sick. He can’t move forward with Matt’s hand against his chest. He shivers, staring down into his drink.

“Matt-”

“He. _Loves_. You.”

Shiro shakes his head. Keith _loved_ him.

He wants to tell Matt that, tell him the exact words Keith said today. _I’ve moved on_. But there’s no way he can push them out, his tongue too clumsy with the fragile words. He’ll be sick if he even tries to speak. He shakes his head again, over and over.

“You had to have known,” Matt says in a kinder, quieter tone.

He can’t meet his friend’s eyes. He already knows what he’ll find - disappointment. That’s how everyone on this planet looks at him. Like some pathetic, washed up divorcé. He runs his tongue against his teeth. His body feels so heavy he couldn’t run away if he wanted to.

“He told me,” Shiro whispers. “The morning of my wedding.”

Matt exhales and the warm air meets Shiro’s face. His shoulders sink. He wishes the canvas behind him would open up and eat him alive.

“ _Shiro_.”

He hates the sound of Matt’s voice. He hates _everything_ about this. This planet. This situation. The sight of Keith, pink cheeked and beautiful. The taste of something he can’t eat.

“What was I supposed to do?!” He snaps. “It was my wedding!”

Matt scans his face, makes this half-choked laughing sound. Bewilderment. Shiro thinks he’s about to be smacked again but Matt clutches his own head and turns in a circle.

“You knew before then.”

Shiro opens his mouth to protest but Matt points at him, eyes furious like he’s never seen before. Amber and toxic. Protective. Shiro’s breath stops.

“No!” Matt hisses. “You _knew_.”

Shiro doesn’t speak. His eyes follow Matt as he paces, wonders when the balance shifted. When Matt became Keith’s most loyal friend, not his. He wants to hate him. He wants to hate the both of them. His eyes sting.

“You knew,” Matt continues. “And you’re not going to do anything about it? Because you’re scared? Because you’re too obsessed with feeling sorry for yourself?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shiro mutters.

“Tell me!”

Matt’s voice is ragged, louder than Shiro’s ever heard before. The most poisonous thing he’s seen come out of his mouth, and it adds a ruined edge to a thousand fond memories. For the first time Shiro considers he might leave this planet without either his friends.

“I couldn’t look at Keith!” Shiro shouts back.

His name feels so _heavy_ on his tongue. The sound of it makes Matt’s eyes wide, like it means something to finally break him. Shiro rounds on the young man and pushes him back, bullying his strength into a smaller body.

“I couldn’t look at him without seeing what I did!” Shiro says. “I almost-”

He stops before he throws up, his chest heaving. Sick. He feels sick. His arm shakes where it’s gripped Matt’s jacket. He’s thought of it a thousand times - killing Keith. How it would have felt to hold his lifeless body. How his final words would have been an admission of unconditional love.

“What _Kuron_ did to him,” Matt says.

Shiro shakes his head, stomach turning itself inside-out. He trembles as he walks away. There’s nowhere to go - just black sky and damp earth. The mud folds beneath his boots. The wind nips at his skin. All he hears is his own pulse.

“This isn’t your business,” he mutters at Matt. “Why are you even here?”

He doesn’t need to ask. He knows why. Matt cares about Keith. A lot of people do. It was Shiro who stepped away from him. It was Shiro who gave up. The jealousy is suffocating. He wants to hit Matt - but he doesn’t have a reason.

“The science side of things,” Matt shrugs, staring at his feet.

_What a stupid thing to say_ , Shiro thinks.

But there’s nothing intelligent about this fight, no reason to be out here in the cold. He should apologise to Matt. He should say something, literally anything.

But the opportunity is stolen by a shout, a commotion. Cheering comes from the other side of the canvas and Shiro rushes back into the tent, Matt close to his side. There’s a grunt, the scuffle of boots across dirt. Shiro sees a whip of hair, hears a chorus of competitive cheers.

Keith is beautiful in his fury.

He’s a flash of black against a hulking form, a nimble sting. Tonight’s suitor is a challenge but Keith barely breaks a sweat. His pupils look round and black, focused like a cat. Shiro doesn’t see the species Keith fights but he hears it grunt in pain, toppled easily by the smallest Blade.

Shiro wants to smile but his jaw locks.

Keith combs away the hair from his face and his cheeks are pink. He pants, his mother tilting up his chin to examine the small cut the competitor left upon his jaw. He seems unbothered, not even a hint of pride. When he turns his head he catches Shiro’s eyes.

Keith stares at him and time stops.

Between one heartbeat and the next it starts again, and everything’s too loud. Bodies move and time passes twice as quick. Keith’s pulled away by his family, eyes lingering until the last possible moment.

Then he’s gone.

……………………………………………………………………………

Shiro doesn’t see Keith the next day.

Overnight the suitors catch wind that the best way to be alone with Keith is to follow him onto the battlefield. They leave in clusters like a bizarre reality dating program and Shiro is helpless but to watch. He goes off with his own team, a mix of Blades and strangers. But it doesn’t feel the same to fight without Keith next to him.

He comes back to camp in blood and sweat, and Shiro spends too long beneath the shower’s spray with his hand around his cock. He thinks of the same things. Of narrow hips. Of burned marshmallow. Of conquering. He thinks of Keith, both violent and tender thoughts, and he comes the way he did before.

With guilt.

Keith’s smell is so strong Shiro doesn’t need to see him to know where he’s been. It clings to everything and the glimpses that he does get prove that Keith is growing prettier. If Shiro were fond of cliches he’d say Keith was glowing. He’s not the only one who notices. Keith is always flanked by bulky aliens, breathing in his every move.

He’s approached for three fights that evening. He emerges victorious from the first two, a surprise to no one. It leaves Shiro breathless at his strength. Blushing, a little dazed, and yet Keith appears stronger than ever. He finds Shiro after each match and holds his gaze before he’s whisked away.

It’s the third fight that strikes a horrible truth in Shiro.

The Balmeran isn’t any larger than the others but he’s fast. Even faster than Keith. He’s the first to land a blow on him, sending him into the knees of their audience and curled into a ball. Shiro’s spirit sinks. It’s apparent he’s been spoiled so far, spared from the reality of a Taming.

It’s violent.

Keith’s head jerks back as a fist connects with his jaw. He’s so _small_ , it hardly seems fair. Shiro pushes through the crowd on instinct but it’s a tide he cannot swim. Everyone is just as excited, adrenalised and loud.

There’s a chorus of shouts, a flurry of movement. Keith appears over the mass of bodies, suspended by a hand around his throat. His teeth are bared, eyes yellow and feral-looking. He thrashes with a supernatural energy, dragging his claws through leathery skin.

“ _Yield!_ ” The Balmeran roars.

It makes the crowd manic. Horrified and excited. Shiro cannot breath. _This is it_ , he thinks. This is the one Keith cannot beat. Through the dirt and sweat and ashes he can smell Keith.

“Yield to me!” The alien hisses when Keith kicks again.

He drops him like a toy and Shiro cries out as he loses sight of Keith.

“No!” He shouts.

But it’s one amongst many - lost to cheers of encouragement, and outrage, and fear. Shiro’s throat is so tight he can’t swallow, his mouth dry and his heart rabbiting violently. No. _No_. _No no no_.

And then quicker than it’d started - the Balmeran is on his back.

Keith stands over him like it’s his birth right.

“Yield,” Keith says, breathing heavy.

And the Balmeran does.

Shiro should feel relieved but he stands still in shock. Bodies bustle into his. His teeth clack as he’s pushed, pain shooting up his jaw. There’s murmurs as he’s passed by, nasty words growled with contempt.

_Pitiful_. _Small_. _Human_.

The last word is said with such insult that Shiro cracks his glass. Like it’s something to be ashamed of. Like they don’t know Keith’s half-human too.

_Not one of them deserve him_ , Shiro finds himself thinking.

It’s a selfish, two-drink-deep thought. He watches Keith leave through blurring eyes, and he drinks until the butterflies in his stomach drown.

……………………………………………………………………………

A new suitor arrives at dawn.

Shogid comes two days before Keith’s Taming and it’s clear he is important. A war lord, Shiro hears through rumours.

He’s at least three feet taller than Shiro, almost twice the size of Keith. Wide and intimidating, with dark skin and pale hair collected in a thick knot. He splits the crowd with his immense size and aura, a sword in one of his four arms.

Shiro expects Shogid to fight Keith immediately. It certainly seems that way when he strides to the Blade’s private tent. He meets Keith and Krolia at the mouth of it, bowing his head in respect. The Galra make a similar gesture and the crowd murmurs restlessly as he converses with the pair.

Eventually Shogid bends and places a parcel at Keith’s feet.

A gift.

The whispering intensifies. No suitor has bought Keith a gift yet. Even Shiro shuffles closer to try glimpse what’s wrapped inside the ornate cloth. It’s Krolia who opens it, lifting the parcel into the air. There’s an awed gasp and Shiro expects to see rare jewels, flowers, perhaps an impressive weapon.

Krolia holds in her hands the severed head of a Yomon beast.

Shiro scrunches his nose. It’s clear the non-human crowd finds it impressive. Even Keith raises his eyebrows, moving closer to examine the strange gift. He speaks to Shogid, bows his head again as they converse. The boy looks tired, calm. His hair is unravelled, too early to have braided it. Shogid’s lucky to have glimpsed Keith like this, mouth full and pouty from sleep.

Keith steps in and lifts his chin. He pulls back his hair and exposes the long line of his throat. Shogid bends and puts his nose against it. The sight makes Shiro’s chest hurt. The audience mutter angrily as he rubs his nose along Keith’s neck, a privilege none of them have been rewarded with.

When it’s over Shogid leaves, moving through the crowd like its made of water. Shiro doesn’t budge, following the newcomer with his eyes. He comes close, near enough that he can see Shogid is half-Galran. His eyes give it away, but his size and thick, black markings are of heritage Shiro can’t place.

Shogid stares down at him as he passes, his nostrils flaring as he breathes Shiro in. He must catch something on his face because he smiles slightly, considering Shiro like one would an ant. His expression is dismissive as he passes by, Keith’s scent clinging to his armour.

Shiro’s in a bad mood for the rest of the morning.

He decides to curb it with more blood upon his sword. He heads for the jungle alone despite Kolivan’s numerous warnings. He’s feeling reckless, a little stupid. He needs to take it out on sentient plant-life so he doesn’t plow his sword through Keith’s possible fiancé.

He’s almost to the tree-line when he hears it - quick and light feet upon the earth. It’s followed by a spark of ozone, Kosmo appears several yards ahead.

“Hey,” Keith smiles.

His scent is like a punch to the face. Shiro doesn’t speak for a moment, the cloying smell sinking deep into his lungs. By now Keith has braided his hair and up close he is intoxicating. His throat is bare, marked with Shogid’s scent.

“Hey,” Shiro returns. “You’re popular.”

It’s an understatement. Keith shrugs. Shiro can’t tell if he is blushing from the compliment or his all-consuming heat. The smell has matured as the days passed, now mixed with something deeper. Something feral.

“Shogid is half-Galran,” Keith comments. “Like me.”

Shiro sniffs.

“Mom likes him too,” he adds.

_Because he gifted you a severed head?_ Shiro thinks, annoyed. He could do the same if Keith desired it. He’ll bring him back six today, slimy and green.

“You deserve anything you want,” he says instead.

Keith scoffs like he’s about to say something scathing. He holds his tongue, fixing Shiro with a hard look. Shiro stares forward, using his sword to cut loose an entrance to the jungle. Kosmo noses through, ears pressed forward.

“You’re in a mood,” Keith comments.

“Hm,” Shiro replies.

They don’t talk as they cut through the jungle and Shiro’s not sure he could open his mouth without saying something stupid. It feels real now, the image of Shogid so clear in his mind. Keith is strong. Intensely strong. But after his near-miss with the Balmeran Shiro’s worry begins to permeate.

The killing helps a little.

Keith is pinker than usual, easily out of breath. He fights slower, still as graceful as before, but takes a tumble. Shiro doesn’t dare say a thing, doesn’t dare face the wrath of the famous Kogane pride. But it’s clear his heat has reached a point of no return.

He is panting when they finish and Shiro feels better. Adrenalised. He already looks forward to a shower, to ease the half-hard throb trapped against his thigh. Keith’s smell doesn’t help at all, heightened with his sweat. He gazes up at Shiro with calm, softened eyes and his legs almost give out.

“Careful,” Shiro chastises.

He guides Keith to the edge of the clearing where flowers grow thick and plentiful. They sink into them like a blanket of petals, ripping off their armour to lay tamely in their under-suits. Shiro turns his head to watch Keith’s chest rise and fall. The boy turns too, the shadow of his eyelashes extended over his cheek.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Keith says.

Shiro touches his nose and his fingers come back shiny with blood. Keith makes a noise at him, a laugh perhaps. His hair has come half undone and it covers the part of his neck that Shogid scented. Leaning over, Shiro smears his bloody hand over the same place. Keith’s pupils dilate.

“I missed you,” Keith admits.

Shiro wipes the rest of the blood on the grass, admiring the streak the boy willingly let him place there. He fusses with strand of lose hair, tucking them behind one ear. _What can he say to that?_ Shiro thinks. How can he sum up two years of grieving?

“Me too,” he says pathetically.

There’s such a serenity to Keith’s expression that Shiro’s overcome with pride for the man he has become. They hold each other’s gaze until their breathing has stilled, become as dulcet as the breeze.

“Sit up,” Shiro says after a while.

Keith leans against his knees and lets the man pull apart his braid and fix it again. Shiro learned how to do this years ago when he found out how important touch was to the Galra. He makes sure to comb his fingers against Keith’s scalp as he fixes his braid, as gently as he can with his prosthetic. The boy leans his full weight against his legs and sighs.

“I’m going to be there for you,” Shiro says.

Because it’s true - no matter how it hurts. Keith laughs sharply, nervous.

“Don’t say that,” he exhales.

“I want to be at your Taming.”

Shiro has the perfect view of Keith’s ears turning red. The boy shakes his head and then turns so his profile is seen. He doesn’t meet Shiro’s eyes.

“You don’t need to be there,” he says, makes that anxious, breathy laugh again. “I don’t even want my mom there for it.”

Shiro makes a noise, confused. Regardless, he wouldn’t miss Keith’s big day. A small part of him thinks he deserves it, too. Watching Keith be handed to someone else. A pain Keith is so well versed in.

“I want to,” Shiro says again.

Keith rolls his eyes and blushes all the way down to his chest. His neck is still smeared with blood, dewey from the hot day. Shiro drops the finished braid against his spine and squeezes his friend’s shoulder.

“Are you going to choose Shogid?”

Keith shrugs, eyes lowered to the grass.

“What do you think of him?”

Shiro opens and closes his mouth. He should be careful with his words - Keith has always honoured his advice. He kneads his thumb into the boy’s spine and lets go.

“I think it’s your decision to make,” Shiro settles on.

Keith exhales, disappointed. He stares out at the meadow, the slain bodies leaving imprints in the grass, and it’s almost peaceful. Every so often the air lifts his scent and brings it to Shiro’s nose, his mouth.

“How did you know?” Keith asks. “With Curtis?”

_I didn’t,_ Shiro thinks.

……………………………………………………………………………

Shogid notices the blood.

Shiro revels in the moment, giving Keith’s arm a squeeze before the boy leaves him and heads toward his tent. He senses eyes on him, the weight of a displeased man. When he glances up he catches the gaze of the Galran war lord and Shiro can’t help the way his mouth curves sweetly.

He needs a shower, something to drink. To jerk off. Shogid stops him before he can reach his tent. The alien is intimidating, staring down at Shiro with an eerie, controlled anger. He smiles and admittedly Shiro finds it handsome. Like a Venus fly trap - disgusting and alluring.

“Clever human,” Shogid says. “I could smell your filth on him.”

Shogid’s voice comes from his throat, sounds like velvet. It’s easy to see his appeal, to wither at the armour or the width of all four biceps. Maybe it’s what Keith likes. Shiro raises his chin and swallows, standing his ground.

“Likewise,” he replies.

Shogid’s eyes narrow into black slits. When he tilts his head he reveals two sets of teeth, one nestled just behind the first. His tongue is dark like his skin, fangs gleaming as they catch the dying sunlight.

“You would be wise not to cross me,” the alien warns.

Shiro snorts.

“You don’t deserve Keith.”

He didn’t plan on saying it - it’s the truth. It falls out of his mouth and he doesn’t regret saying it. Shogid’s eyes crease like he’s smiling. His mouth opens, his dual jaws like a threat.

“That is for his Taming to decide.”

“You won’t beat him.”

Shiro’s voice is shaking. His hand too, clenched in fists. He wants to hit the war lord, never mind how large he is. He took down larger in the arena. Has the blood of much stronger men stained upon his fists.

“He does not seem much of a challenge,” Shogid taunts.

He lifts his head and his eyes drift to where Keith was last seen. He sniffs the air, his scent lingering. His sclera flash as he stares down his nose to where Shiro stands.

“The little Blade is in the throes of heat,” Shogid continues. “I could smell his cunt this morning.”

Shiro’s fist moves faster than his thoughts. _Crack_. It connects with the side of Shogid’s head and it snaps to the side. A line of blood drips from his cheekbone, illuminated by the blue glow of Shiro’s floating arm. The sick sound draws attention and onlookers begin to whisper.

Shogid wipes a hand over his cheek and his blood is black. He gleams at the sight of it, shadows shifting on his face as Shiro’s arm returns to his side. He is panting, waiting for Shogid’s inevitable stoke. Instead he bends down so he can breath on Shiro’s face.

“Do not tempt me, tiny human.”

His hand spreads over Shiro’s chest and he _shoves_. Shogid’s force takes his breath away, and the humiliation of being pushed sends him staggering into a pile of empty crates. Shogid sniffs and turns his back, stalking off without a second glance.

“Hey!” Shiro shouts.

He’s white hot with rage. He hasn’t felt this mad in years, like his blood is made of magma. Not since the arena.

His prosthetic arm hurtles forward and grasps a fist of Shogid’s leather armour. The Altean tether quivers at the mass of him, teeth grit as he pulls back with all his strength. It’s enough to make the war lord fall backward, and when he his back hits the earth Shiro attacks.

Shiro doesn’t see past his hatred.

He tastes dirt. He smells blood. His fists burn and his bones creak. His rage shifts Shogid’s immoveable hulk through the dust. It feels _good,_ fists bared and bile in his throat - to fight like an animal, unrestricted like he hasn’t been in years.

“Stop!”

Keith’s shout comes muffled between punches. Shiro turns to find him but his jaw is caught in a right hook. His teeth crack together, his vision unfocused from the socket. Iron seeps into throat and his sweat stings a cut across his brow.

“Stop!” Keith screams again. “Stop it!”

A body pushes between the men. Keith is a one-two punch - the first a shock of sticky sweet scent. The second comes in physical form, a sturdy shove between both bodies. He pries them apart with an inhuman growl, Shiro tossed onto his back with a grunt.

“What are-”

Shogid thrashes and catches Keith in an accidental punch. His power is reserved for a man the size of Shiro so it catches the boy by surprise. Keith is sent rolling, a spurt of blood between his cheek and Shogid’s fist.

_Black_.

Shiro sees black.

He lunges for the Galran war lord, grasps his throat under his metal fist. Shiro’s going to kill him. He’ll kill him. Sink his hands into his flesh and tear him apart. Pummel him into the earth until he’s dust. Hate. All he feels is hate.

“Shiro stop!”

Keith’s cry stabs at his heart but Shiro can’t stop. He wants blood. Teeth. There’s a shove against his chest that startles him. Then another. Finally a kick - and Keith sends Shiro sliding backwards into the side of a tent.

Keith stands between them like a peace-keeper.

He’s breathing hard, his hair ruined and his cheek smeared with blood. His eyes dart between Shogid and Shiro, sclera yellowing. He opens and closes his mouth, brows meeting in a dazed frown. He gasps, hands sinking to his side.

“I, _oh_ -”

Keith’s knees give out. He falls forward onto them, eyes closed and mouth open. His hair tumbles over his face and his body curls inward. He hugs his knees to his chest and sobs, wounded. His smell is sour, sickening. Shogid reaches for him first but Shiro pushes him away.

“Don’t touch him!”

Shogid sneers but backs away. He’s subdued, bleeding from his nose and ears. Shiro wonders if he looks similar, ragged and wet. He certainly feels that way. He shields Keith’s body with his own and gently rolls him on his back.

“Keith?”

His terror is audible. Carefully, he cups Keith’s face and wipes the blood Shogid left. The wound isn’t bad but the boy is shaking. His skin feels molten, sweat dappled on his brow. His eyes open and they’re blown black. He looks…

Shiro swallows, thick with guilt.

Because Keith looks intoxicating.

Like a wet dream, smells like sex too. His head tips back and displays the smear of blood Shiro put there himself. He whines, a strange and throaty noise. Heat, is all that Shiro thinks. Keith is deep, deep in heat.

“Keith,” he says again, calmer.

He strokes his knuckle down his cheek and the boy arches into his touch. He smells like spring, alive and fertile. He blooms in Shiro’s hands. His heart thaws from the fight and he lets Keith sink his claws in it.

And then he’s stolen away.

Krolia lifts her son like he weighs nothing, a protective clutch around his petite frame. She spares Shiro a cool stare, one that makes him wither. She carries him away and Shiro looks down at his boots. Blood is speckled on the dirt - some Keith’s, some his. He hopes he drew a fair share from Shogid too.

The alien stands a few paces back watching Shiro with an unreadable expression. When their eyes meet he raises his fist to his mouth and he licks Keith’s blood from it. The corner of his mouth curves and Shiro steps toward him, only to be pulled back.

“Nuh uh, big guy.”

Matt’s voice is a balm. The young man turns Shiro’s face toward him and prods something painful on his cheek. His clicks his tongue just like a mother.

“Really did a number on you,” he chastises.

“I did worse,” Shiro mutters.

“Sure you did.”

……………………………………………………………………………

Keith doesn’t sleep.

He sobs, cradled in his mom’s arms. He grasps her and pulls long, deep breaths of her familiar scent but still he can’t stop crying. He’s a wreck, melting from the inside out. He can’t speak through the thick of his tears, his fingers shaking as they pull at dark fabric.

“M-m-mom,” is all he can manage.

Krolia keeps his head tucked under her chin, clutching the back of his neck tightly. She shakes too, protective and angry, but she doesn’t let go. She purrs but it’s not from content - it’s a low growl. She may be blunt, a little odd, but there’s no question how she loves Keith.

“I d-d-don-”

“ _Shh_ , kit.”

It’s warm inside their tent, dim too. Outside Keith can hear a hundred men, smell them, almost feel them. Its overwhelming, like someone’s rubbed him raw. His skin melts off, his heat coming in sharp waves. Even his tears sting, and the space between his bodysuit and skin is slick with sweat.

“I don’t wh-want-”

“I know, kit.”

Keith can still smell blood.

And the image of Shiro fighting Shogid made him _ill_. Reminded him of the Shiro he only met once - a terrifying thing, a force of nature. The man that tried to kill him years ago. It makes him sick. Sick sick sick. It thrills him terribly. Keith’s body shakes through another involuntary sob.

_Shiro_.

He wants Shiro.

His skin crawls _for_ Shiro.

He has the smell of Shiro’s blood in his nose, and the remnant of his touch against his cheek. But he doesn’t have him in any other sense. Shiro doesn’t _want_ him. Shiro doesn’t want to be his mate.

“He doesn’t-”

His heart is peeled open. Keith’s voice cuts with a sticky gasp. He’s too hot. He can’t breathe. He claws at the neck of his bodysuit but his hands are too weak. His nails scape his skin and larger hands shoo them away. His mom tugs the fabric down and cool air meets his tepid back. Keith drags in an aching breath and wriggles until the bodysuit is bunched around his waist. It aches. Everything aches.

“I’ve got you,” Krolia whispers.

Her affection comes rarely and Keith savours it, sniffling into her hair. He wants to go home. He wants to sleep. He doesn’t want to be here, looked over like a trophy. A thing to be owned. A thing to be tamed. He is _scared_. His mom knows this, petting his tangled hair.

“It will be over soon,” she promises.

Keith cries, hiding in her hair.

……………………………………………………………………………

Keith goes missing the day before his Taming.

Shiro feels like shit. Looks like it too. He doesn’t get out of bed until midday and when he does its as if he’s been hit by a truck. He spares himself one look in the mirror and scrunches his nose in disgust. It brings pain, most-likely broken.

His bruises garner interest from the other suitors but Shiro can’t bring himself to care. He hopes his limp isn’t as obvious as it feels as he heads toward the main tent. He makes himself a poor excuse of a coffee, glancing around in hopes of seeing Keith, or at least another Blade.

Krolia finds him not long after.

“Keith is missing,” she says.

By now it’s afternoon and most Blades are stationed in the jungle. Krolia looks nervous and it’s so uncharacteristically like her that Shiro’s stomach sinks at the sight.

“Last night he was overwhelmed,” she continues.

The way she looks at Shiro suggests she blames him, at least partly, for her son’s distress.

“I’ll look for him,” he tells her.

Shiro’s got the act of finding Keith down to an art.

He’s had a lot of practice since the Garrison. Keith is like a cat - when things got too noisy or too stressful, he could always be found tucked into the smallest, darkest place possible. In the Garrison it was beneath his bed. On the Castle he could always find Keith in the kitchen, tucked in a supply cabinet.

On Anuveon, Shiro finds him hiding between two space craft.

Keith looks back at him with reflective eyes. He seems calmer than he did the night before but his smell is what gives him away. Sweet but suffocating, as pleasant as the flushed glow across his cheeks. He exhales when Shiro finds him, hugging his arms around his waist.

“Hey buddy,” Shiro whispers.

He leans against the edge of the craft but doesn’t come too close. Keith’s grown. Come _so_ far. Matured in ways Shiro never thought he’d live long enough to see. But sometimes it’s like he’s that shy boy again, tucked away at the back of a classroom.

“Wanna take a walk?” He asks, carefully.

Keith nods.

They head toward the jungle in silence. The twin suns are nearing the horizon, their shadows growing longer. The sunsets on Anuveon are among the best Shiro’s ever seen and he’s privately pleased he gets to share one with Keith. When they reach the tree-line they turn and walk along it, grass crushed beneath their boots.

This must be a lot for Keith, Shiro thinks. And he’s annoyed with himself that he didn’t consider that earlier. Stars, he wants to touch Keith. Wants to ease apart that tense frame, soften his guarded expression. His fingers twitch in the air between their bodies but he doesn’t want to scare the boy away.

Eventually they come across a jut of rock that overlooks the valley. The twin suns cast an apricot-orange glow across the grass and its mistakable for earth. The two men settle on the edge of the cliff and let the sun pass over their skin. It reminds Shiro of the days they spent out in the desert, all those years ago.

“My Taming is tomorrow,” Keith says.

His voice is rough like he’s been crying. It’s exactly the way he sounded the morning of Shiro’s wedding. Just like that day, he’s not sure what he can do to ease Keith’s pain. He feels stupid with Keith’s fragile, baby-bird heart in his clumsy hands.

“Are you nervous?’

_That’s a dumb question_ , his mind echoes.

Keith shrugs. He looks down at his lap and kicks his legs against the sheer drop below him. Shiro goes to speak when Keith beats him to it.

“Can I tell you something?”

He looks at Shiro. Really looks at him. It makes Shiro’s heart melt. There’s not a thing he wouldn’t do for Keith.

“Anything,” he promises, smiling.

“I’m going to lose to Matt,” Keith says.

Shiro’s smile fades.

“Tomorrow night,” Keith continues, fidgeting. “He’ll fight me and I’ll pretend to lose.”

Shiro can’t speak right away. He shifts his jaw from side to side, struggling around the rock that’s gone and lodged itself inside his throat.

“What?” He asks, dumbly.

“I don’t want to be Shogid’s mate,” Keith explains, his voice so sweet and calm. “But I’m not sure I can beat him. So I’m going to lose to Matt.”

It’s a lot to take in. Shiro stares down at his hands and frowns so deep it hurts. _What is happening to him?_ The rock in his throat is pounding. It’s his heart, he realises. Sore and solid. Breaking.

“You’re going to lose to Matt,” he echoes.

Keith nods and looks out at the gorgeous view. The skyline is dark, the twinkle of stars on the horizon. The jungle makes the air sweet, but Keith makes it even sweeter. Shiro breathes in, saddened by the scent.

“I thought you didn’t have a choice,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as stupid as he feels. “The… the pheromones.”

Keith snorts.

“That’s what mom says, but it’s not true. I can’t smell the other Galra like they can smell me, I’m too human.”

This time he laughs, albeit a little sadly.

“So you’re just going to… give in?”

“Yeah,” Keith smiles.

He seems relieved. He waits until Shiro looks him in the eye and his timid smile becomes a little wider. It’s the most painful thing the man has ever lived through.

“Is that okay?”

_How the fuck do I answer that?_ Shiro thinks.

“But you don’t love him,” Shiro blurts.

Keith’s smile becomes smaller. He reaches out his hand and lays it over Shiro’s own. His knuckles are bruised from fighting, so ugly beneath the boy’s gentle touch.

“It’s not about love,” Keith says.

Shiro wants to throw up. He stares at the place Keith touches him, can’t even bring himself to turn his palm and hold his best friend’s hand. He opens his mouth to speak but his breath rattles. His chest rises and falls, and his shoulders sink.

“You’re upset,” Keith says.

He takes back his hand like its burning Shiro.

“I know he’s your friend,” Keith says. “I just… I can’t do this anymore. You don’t know how hard it is without a mate. I never ask for anything, Shiro.”

It’s the most selfish thing Keith has ever said, and that says a lot.

“Is it what you want?” Shiro eventually asks.

Keith nods. Shiro nods too, trying to convince himself. He clenches his hands, wishing Keith’s palm was back in his. It’s empty. He’s so, so empty.

“No one’s gonna believe you could lose to Matt,” Shiro says.

It takes Keith a moment to realise he’s joking. When he does he laughs, his teeth showing as he smiles. He shuffles forward and throws both arms around Shiro, pressing his nose against his neck. He squeezes him tightly, and after a moment of surprise Shiro returns the hug. His eyes water where they’re pressed into black hair.

“You’re shaking,” Keith whispers against his ear.

“I’m… I…” Shiro forces out a pathetic laugh. “I could really use a drink.”

Keith’s hands are too soft on the back of his neck. His fingers dip into his undercut. His lips are pressed to the base of the man’s throat. It’s torture. Pure, pretty torture.

“No one’s thrown me a bachelor’s party yet,” Keith says.

The suggestion is a double-edged sword. Shiro nods, helpless to his whim. How could he ever ask Keith to be anything other than happy?

……………………………………………………………………………

The bottle of Nuvil has their name on it.

They head back to the cliff to be alone again. It’s the dead of night, cold and black. In the distance they can hear the cry of music coming from the campgrounds. They can see it glowing on the horizon. There’s a nebula above them, stunningly close.

The dark is private, the liquor keeps them warm. Keith wears that big, black coat but it doesn’t stifle his scent. Shiro breathes it in with each drink he takes and it makes his cock hard. If it weren’t so dark Keith would see it, straining desperately against Shiro’s trousers.

They’ve drunk enough to make them giggly. Keith’s the same drunk that he’s always been - a touchy one. At one point his hand finds Shiro’s thigh and it doesn’t leave. Every so often, as he talks about everything and nothing, it shifts higher. Shiro closes his eyes and listens to his handsome, raspy voice, imagining how that hand might look wrapped around his dick.

Or that mouth.

Keith chews his lips as he speaks, slick with alcohol. He’s a dream, a silver outline in the dark. As he talks about the Garrison, of Iverson, and sneaking beers into their dormitories, he leans his head against Shiro’s shoulder. His hair meets his nose and the man breathes in until he groans.

He wants to kiss Keith.

It’s not a new thought nor a complicated one. He wants to press his lips against him and kiss the words right out his throat. He wants to shut him up, make his lips pouty with bruises. Shiro blames the alcohol, a little. If Keith’s a touchy drunk, Shiro is a horny one - no wonder Adam always worried.

It’s not hard to sneak his arm around Keith’s waist and they’re both too drunk to question it. The boy’s gotten bigger, more muscle than baby fat now, but he arches against the man like a kitten would.

“You’ll get your smell on me,” Keith warns.

_Good_ , Shiro thinks.

He presses his broken nose into the column of his throat and smiles. His lips catch Keith’s skin and his chest hitches.

“That tickles.”

Shiro’s hand goes to Keith’s flat stomach and relishes the warmth from under his bodysuit. He’s so hot, inside and out. A burning weight smothered against Shiro’s side.

“You’ll make Shogid mad,” Keith snickers.

He feels Keith’s laugh come from his gut. It would be so easy to push his hand between Keith’s legs and cup him there. _Fuck_. His head is stuffed with cotton wool. His thoughts flirt between sweet and filthy.

“I coulda beat him,” Shiro mumbles.

“Mhm,” Keith sighs. “You’re the strongest man here, Shiro.”

They’re all over each other and it’s wrong. It just feels nice. That’s how Shiro justifies it. Keith’s always encouraged this side of him, beckoned him to be free. To act like an animal. He paws at Keith like one, both of them pretending this was something friends should do.

“I think _you_ are,” Shiro whispers back.

Keith lays back, cushioned by the ridiculous fur coat. It blends into his hair and he looks like a mirror of the sky above. His eyes reflect the heavens. His breath catches on Shiro’s cheek as he leans over him.

“I’m so glad you’ll be there tomorrow,” Keith admits.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Keith reaches up and cups Shiro’s jaw. The liquor has numbed the bruises he gained. He still feels Keith, though. Couldn’t miss it. He leans into his palm and shuts his eyes.

“I’m nervous.”

“What about?”

There must be a million reasons why Keith is nervous for his Taming. He said himself it’s a big deal. Perhaps he’s intimated by Shogid. He runs his knuckle up Keith’s ribs and over his pectoral muscle. He’s soft there, tempting. Shiro grazes the edge of it and Keith twitches.

“I’ve never had sex before,” the boy says.

It’s a shocking thing to say and he’s not sure why Keith’s said it. Shiro chokes, sitting up a little, startled. His face burns. Half of him feels wildly protective at the admission. The other half of him _burns_.

“Yeah?”

It’s the only intelligent thing he can think to say. He smoothes back Keith’s fringe and sees his open expression. He’s not sure if the information surprises him or not. He wants to kiss his forehead. Keith nods, his hands folded on his chest.

“That’s why I’m nervous,” he continues. ‘The public mating ritual, I’ve never…”

“The mating ritual,” Shiro echoes.

The man is suddenly more sober than he was before.

“At my Taming,” Keith confirms.

Shiro’s expression must read blank because Keith rolls his eyes, staring up at the stars. He’s still trying to process the words that left his lips. _Mating ritual_.

_Public mating ritual_.

“I’m scared of everyone watching me,” Keith says.

His throat bobs, he seems so small. Shiro’s frowning so hard it hurts. _Mating ritual_ , he thinks again. Keith’s going to -

“But I’ll feel better with you there,” Keith says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He closes his eyes and leaves Shiro to quietly panic.

……………………………………………………………………………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please... may you spare a comment or a kudos for this humble smut peddler...
> 
> (Follow me on Twitter, I write long and filthy thread)

**Author's Note:**

> I just wonder what Matt's doing there...


End file.
